Shadow to Light
by Girl Who Writes
Summary: AU. In 1918, Jasper lures the newborn known as Mary-Alice back to Monterrey. He is lost to her before it even begins.
1. A girl who is both death and the maiden

**Title:** Shadow to Light

 **Author:** Girl Who Writes

 **Characters:** Alice/Jasper

 **Word Count:** 2135

 **Rating:** PG

 **Genre:** AU, Angst

 **Summary:** AU. In 1918, Jasper lures the newborn known as Mary-Alice back to Monterrey. He is lost to her before it even begins.

 **Notes:** It's been so long since I posted something, when I've been writing away! This was written for 31-days over at Livejournal, who always have the very best prompts. This is an idea I've been playing with in a longer fic ( _The Long Way Around_ ), after The Frowning Chesire Cat's _Alice & Jasper Meet Under Slightly Different Circumstances_, which I am obsessed with.

This is a one shot, and I'm on the fence about continuing. I have a vague idea of where I might go with this, so if you're interested in me continuing, let me know. And you can find me on tumblr as _lexiewrites_ or _goldeneyedgirl_ (my twilight-only blog). Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

 **Disclaimer:** Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer; I make no profit from this fan-based venture.

* * *

 _A girl who is both death and the maiden._

She is no bigger than a child, with round eyes. He finds her wandering around nowhere, Mississippi, and lures her back home, like a starving kitten. He expects nothing of her, truly, except another body for Maria's campaign.

Maria is suspicious of the tiny, bewildered girl, who has no memories of her humanity, of her change or the burning. The only thing she has, other than eyes that pierce right down to whatever remains of his soul, is a ragged hospital gown with 'Mary-Alice' written on it in smeared ink.

Whether or not it was her name when she was alive, it is her name now.

No one expects her to survive training, but somehow she makes it right through to a battle, darting and spinning through the fighters. Her dress is shredded to ribbons, and there is a ragged bite to her arm, but she lives to watch the victory pyre stoked and burning.

It is only then that he learns about her gift; Maria is delighted, of course. Mary-Alice is vague about how it works; she describes it as the ability to make the right choice - knowing where it is safe to run in a battle, knowing how to move to avoid destruction. But no matter how she tries, she cannot see those choices for anyone else. No matter how Maria coerces, threatens, demands, Mary-Alice's gift is for Mary-Alice only.

But it serves her well, as she becomes deliciously lethal, spinning, twirling and then tearing her victim apart. It is made sweeter by the fact that she looks so sweet and innocent, with her beautiful eyes and doll-like build, clad in dresses that never quite fit right, barefoot and gnawing on her bottom lip.

He is lost before it even begins.

* * *

She becomes a balm for his misery, her dreamy countenance and innocence. In his room, she will perch on the window sill, twisting bits of paper through her fingers, into roses and small birds, butterflies and boats. She offers him some comfort in the wake of the loss of Peter.

He thinks about confiding in her, in a moment of weakness, that he let Peter and Charlotte _leave_ instead of tearing them apart. That Peter was a pillar of strength he never truly acknowledged until it was gone. But looking at tiny Mary-Alice, with her oddly reflective eyes and childlike demeanour, he couldn't confess. He couldn't condemn her to Maria's retribution if the truth came out, and Mary-Alice knew anything about it.

Maria had a talent for knowing the truth from a lie, and he never wanted Mary-Alice in her firing line.

And that is how they continue. A girl with her head in the clouds and a disturbing talent for battle, and a hollowed-out soldier with a death wish.

* * *

He barely remembers how it begins; he has to trace the nights and days back through his mind to figure it out. His constant shadow, Mary-Alice, and more battles. Maria has long since cast him from her bed, and he has no time or energy to block his gift long enough to bed one of the newborns.

So, when the battle against Paolo's goes far too well (it is a slaughter, over in seconds, because Paolo is obsessed with the idea of a strong, aged army rather than the proven strength and viciousness of newborns and, well, Maria had made it clear that she would not tolerate anyone questioning her boundaries) and they are all full of adrenaline; an animalistic wildness that swallows up Maria's army. They stoke the victory pyre, burn the remains, and there is a great and terrible joy that dawn.

He kisses her once, deeply. She nearly falls off the railings she is perched on, at the sudden intrusiveness of his kiss. Only his hand resting against the small of her back stops her from tumbling into the dirt. She blinks curiously at him when he pulls away, studying him carefully.

But before anything else can happen, some of the newborns are fighting, and it is enough to draw his attention to break it up. She watches him go, irritation obvious in his every movement. He is low on patience, the wildness still thrumming through all of them, and when the newborns challenge him, riled up and wanting to fight, he simply destroys both of them, and strides away.

It is little loss. The news of Paolo's spectacular defeat will spread, and no other armies have approached in months. The end of the summer is approaching; the one-year mark upon them. They may not even dull this pyre, leave it to burn the ones that are no longer useful. Maria dislikes relighting the fires.

If nothing else, it cautions the rest of them not to defy the Major, no matter how thick the venom runs.

* * *

She pads into his room late in the afternoon, cloth pulled tightly over the windows; Maria has always been insistent of the debilitating effect the sun has on the strength of their skin, on their long-term health. It is why the younger ones are kept in the barns or in the basement, where they cannot do anything foolish.

"Darlin'," he calls to her, his voice low and alluring, from where he sits on the old daybed, a book carelessly tossed aside. Fresh blood thrums inside of him, and she has always been beautiful, graceful, untouchable.

Until now.

Her eyes are so red, the colour looks flat and dull, as if all light has fled from the blood. She perches carefully on the daybed beside him, in her filthy dress, her funny short hair brushing her cheeks, and that look of curiosity in her eyes.

He's going to hate himself for this later, he knows. He'll add it to the list of despicable things that he's done; he needs this more than ever. The touch of someone familiar (perhaps even _trusts),_ the distraction, the satisfaction, when all he can offer is corruption.

He still does it, and it isn't slow and kind. His hand is behind her head, pulling her into another terrible kiss, as the other slides under the dress. And as soon as he knows she won't pull away, he drops his hand from her head, and begins to peel back her clothing, urgency and desire building too fast for him to control himself.

After all, he lured this girl out of the woods and into a war. Why shouldn't he finish the job, and deflower and debase her, as well?

* * *

He expected Mary-Alice to cower from him after that first encounter; one that left the bedframe twisted and mangled, and him more agitated than ever. But Mary-Alice had said nothing against him; he had long noticed that the girl kept her own confidences. She still shadowed him, still sought him out and folded her paper creations, and fought like a demon possessed, and he could almost forgive himself for the bites he carelessly left upon her body.

He doesn't forgive himself for helping himself to her again and again; somehow, the touches become less demanding and more adoring; the kisses deeper and slower, the nights shorter. She smiles at him more, twists her fingers in his hair, and even talks to him.

They talk about anything and everything – books, history, music, war. Her laugh is like soft bells, and he savours it.

He's not in love with her, no. She is just a balm for his misery.

There is only Maria to worry about. She will not tolerate their bond, this small sanctuary from their realities. Anything that could threaten their loyalty to her is unacceptable, and he has no doubts that Maria would toss Mary-Alice on the fires before she ever let him out of her grasp.

But when he confides this to Mary-Alice, she blinks at him and smiles slyly – a foreign expression, but one that intrigues him. It takes practically no effort to set up Maria to walk in on them – or rather, to see the Major slaking his lust with one of his inferiors on her knees. He orders and snaps at her, and Mary-Alice nods and ducks and obeys without flinching, and he hates the look of satisfaction on Maria's face as he dismisses the diminutive creature with a wave of his hand and not so much as a glance.

He loathes himself, this ridiculous charade, and everything about this hellish life.

* * *

It is a day in late fall, when the winds are blowing south, and Maria has intelligence that the Louisiana coven is on the move. They are crafty, manipulative, a worthy foe they've beaten back many times but never truly defeated.

If they had, there wouldn't even be a Louisiana coven. Live or die – those are the only prizes in war.

She appears like a ghost, her mouth twisted down and her eyes dark.

"The answer is 'yes'," she says to him in a low voice. "Do not even question it."

He looks up from where he is repairing his boots; Maria has been testing them, sending Mary-Alice back to the barracks in the barn, as fit her position; to make sure that he does not see the girl as anything _special._ That his loyalty to Maria is not wavering.

To see her here and now is a risk.

"What are you doing up here?" he asks, his voice streaked with irritation, out of concern.

"When it happens, you will know, and the answer is 'yes'. It's the only way you'll _live,"_ she says sharply.

"Get out of here," he grunts at her. "Maria ordered you out."

"I can take care of myself," she enunciates. " _Swear_ you'll say yes."

"Go!" he yells, and she vanishes, like a ghost.

It's the last thing he ever says to her.

* * *

When Peter reappears three days later, on the very edge of Maria's land, he couldn't be more stunned. He had always held little hope that he and Charlotte would survive without crossing another coven, being dragged into another army, without finding death on foreign territory. But he had to give them that chance. That sliver of hope. Even just to die together, on their own terms.

Peter looks well, with bright eyes and new clothes, and speaks with an eagerness and urgency. Maria's territory stretches from Monterrey to Laredo to Corpus Christi, and he's left Charlotte just outside Laredo, so he hasn't got long.

They came back for _him._ For the one that nearly destroyed both of them.

Peter promises him no fighting, no terror; just nomadic peace. Freedom from Maria's tyranny, from the constant struggle for territory. The wars are unique to the south; north is the paradise they all hoped for – no battles, no fighting, less sun. A virtual vampiric Eden.

"Will you come with us?" Peter asks, looking almost hopeful.

His closest friend has just travelled back down into hell to retrieve him, dragged his mate with him, to certain death if they are unlucky.

 _"The answer is 'yes'. Do not even question it."_

Mary-Alice's words come back to him instantly, as if she is standing behind him, and he doesn't understand how she knew this was going to happen. How lost he is to make the decision. Why he believes her, and when did he started trusting her completely?

 _"I can take care of myself. Swear you'll say yes."_

"Okay," he tells Peter, and his fate is sealed. "Okay. Let's go."

And they run.

* * *

In the years that pass, and everything that happens to him, he carries Mary-Alice with him; an invisible shadow. Another mark against him, abandoning her to that hell without a second thought.

Once, he tried to imagine how she was there; but the side of him that is cold and unrelenting, all about strategy, firmly tells him that she would be dead. Maria had a fierce temper, had destroyed others for looking at her wrong at a bad time; if she had a clue that Mary-Alice knew an inkling about his disappearance… and even then, it took only a second to slip in battle.

He hoped her death had been quick, something she never saw coming.

He's sorrier than anyone will ever know that he didn't take her with him, that she will never know the peace of the north, and the kindness of the Cullens. He's sorry he ever found her that night long ago, and thought taking her back to Monterrey was a good idea.

The sorrow sits upon him like a mantle, and pushes him forwards.

Mary-Alice died for his freedom, for his survival, and he will never dishonour such a gift with his weakness, to ever give in to temptation.

This was never his life to waste.


	2. Amongst the monsters I am well-hidden

**Title:** Shadow to Light

 **Author:** Girl Who Writes

 **Characters:** Alice/Jasper

 **Word Count:** 3270

 **Rating:** M

 **Genre:** AU, Angst

 **Summary:** AU. In 1918, Jasper lures the newborn known as Mary-Alice back to Monterrey. He is lost to her before it even begins.

 **Notes:** And the continuation is here! Alice had a little more to say than Jasper. I'd also be lying if I didn't say I'm already drafting the next part, so let me know if you're interested. Thank you to deltagirl74 and CassandraaCaitlinn for your kind reviews. Thank you for reading!

You can also find me on tumblr as lexiewrites or goldeneyedgirl (my twilight-only blog).

 **Disclaimer:** Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer;

* * *

 **Two _._** _Amongst the monsters I am well-hidden_

Who is she?

She doesn't know. Except for the name scrawled across the back of her shift when she awoke, she knows nothing. And that will probably never change. She will always be the girl from nowhere.

There is something liberating in that. Other newborns speak with grief and regret, rage and misery about their paths, about what they were forced to give up. She has nothing. Just unending darkness. She can be precisely whomever she wants to be. Build herself out of nothing.

And so she does, curating and constructing whom she needs to be. It is easier than it should be, with her gift. It warns her, guides her, shapes her anew. The innocent girl, the maiden, is the safest option. She must keep her words and questions from bubbling up, and just watch. That is the best way to be, with the likes of Maria in charge.

Of course, the innocence is not as much of an act as she would like. She knows nothing about vampires, nothing about social cues or expectations. She fumbles through the best she can, and is lucky that her gift is willing to guide her through the training and the battles. Without it, she would have died a long time ago.

And the truth is, she _wants_ to please the Major. The one she saw in her visions before he found her, the one she is _allowed_ to call 'Jasper'. She saw him with an easy smile and eyes reflecting love, and then met a cold, distant and calculating man, who lead her back to Monterrey like a lamb to slaughter.

In her heart of hearts, she recognizes the brokenness she sees in him. So she will fight, and she will win, and her prize will be that smile on his face.

* * *

It takes the Major and Maria only a few months to deduce that she is gifted, and she fumbles through a vague explanation, because fortune-telling is dangerous. Her stomach twists and swoops when her sight shows her that the truth would be a prison, inescapable unless the vampire kings appear to dole out their petty 'justice', and then she would exchange the rotting mansion of Monterrey for a gilded prison in Volterra.

Either way, it is not the time for honesty.

'The power to make the right decision' is a good enough explanation for Maria and the Major. Her name is struck off the 'destroy' list, and for now, she feels a little safer.

And she learns. Oh, does she learn. They train hard to become warriors, and her speed and grace work in her favour. It takes her a little while to learn how to use her gift in battle, but once she works it out, she proves that she's invaluable on the battlefield. Good enough to keep.

The easiest and hardest of her lessons is learning not to feel. Or, rather, not to register her feelings. To detach completely, let the pain-pleasure-fear-grief-rage wash over her without resistance. Older soldiers than her die in battle, overwhelmed by the fear and horror, the violence and the bloodlust.

It takes some time, to reshape herself in this way, to distance herself from what she sees and feels. The time will come when she will have to face this horror, but it won't be anytime soon.

(A newborn sinks his teeth into her arm, and she glares back at him, not even flinching as his venom sinks into her, and he is dismantled and destroyed before he can even unhook his jaw from her flesh.)

It's not a life she would have chosen, but it's the one that she has.

* * *

The problem she has is that she can never escape what she already knows.

And she _knows_ that her Jasper is hidden beneath the Major. Whether or not that future is lost to them, she still seeks him out, just to remind herself. Just to give herself a flicker of hope for something better than the endless machinations of war.

One of the older soldiers, a middle-aged man with incredible strength, seems to take pity on her; or, at least, on the image she projects to them all. He sits with her one afternoon, and shows her how to fold paper into amusing shapes. A good way to relearn gentleness, he explains, when her fingers tear through the paper before she even folds it. They lose perspective of their strength after the change, and she never knew humanity at all.

The lessons stop the day that man puts his hands on her, and she starts folding them by herself the day he doesn't come back from battle. From pages torn from old Bibles and newspapers, she twists them into flowers, animals and shapes. Her favourite perch is the window sill in the Major's quarters, as he reads and analyses books and documents, maps and messages, and they end up covering the window ledge, spilled onto the rickety writing desk.

The day he picks up a little paper fish and offers a flash of a smile at it, that is when she knows it is going to be okay.

That it will be tough and ugly and hard-won, but _they_ will be okay.

Eventually.

* * *

She's never been kissed before.

Aside from some rowdy newborns in the barracks who don't listen to 'no', but she always wriggles free of them quickly enough, and a few of the older ones – like Peter – put a stop to anyone who tries to corner her for more than she is willing to give.

And she's seen others kiss, and her visions tell her that maybe, in the future, she'll be kissed quite often. She thinks about it like she thinks about battle plans – academically, analysing and planning. It is something distant, that will happen to a different version of her.

When the Major's kiss finally comes, it is hard and unexpected; a last minute decision with no chance of reaching her gift in time, she almost falls into the dirt – if he weren't holding her in place. It _is_ her first kiss, and it is… shocking. Rough and demanding, it makes her feel stripped bare in front of everyone.

She doesn't know what would have happened next, if the newborns weren't fighting; she's curious, and not unwilling, but still a little relieved that he has been distracted long enough for her to catch her breath, and think about it.

Later, she goes to him, knowing exactly will happen – her visions taunt her, tell her that _this_ is the first step. From here, there is _possibility_ , and that is exactly what she's been working for. The flicker of hope, the chance for something. She's still not entirely _sure,_ in that she came into this life knowing exactly nothing, and it was only one of the other newborns in the barracks during those early months that caught on and gave her a quick and crude lesson in human biology. And, of course, there is no privacy, so she has witnesses more live demonstrations than she cares to.

But it has never been _her_ , and she likens her nerves to ants skittering along her flesh. She feels like a sacrificial lamb, to pay with this shard of herself for a still nebulous future. But then, how badly does she want that future?

In the end, she lets him take what he wants, closing her eyes and curling up in the corner of her mind; she feels like she's watching it happen to someone else, the way he strips her, pushes her backwards onto the mattress. His emotions flit across her skin, but she doesn't let them seep in, lets them dissolve where they fall.

He retreated from Maria because of the foul oil slick that were her emotions, eating away at his sanity. She _refuses_ to let him slip through her fingers. He is the King and she is the Queen; she can orchestrate the chessboard to the very best of her ability, but if he falls, it is all over for both of them.

* * *

For a while, things are a new normal, and she likes it – she feels almost like herself, if she had any clue who that was.

He takes her to his bed with startling regularity; a few of her dresses end up hanging from the hooks next to his shirts. Sometimes he kisses her, and she forgets herself, and kisses him back. Then she curses herself out later, because now is not the time to fall in love with him.

They talk about things – he does more talking, because he knows more and he reads, and she hasn't gotten this far by not listening when her betters speak. He likes her input, though, which is a nice change. She laughs at something he says to her, once, and she catches him staring at her with wide eyes and a look of surprise.

But it doesn't last – it can't, not in this lifetime.

He confides in her his fears if Maria catches them like this. She does not tolerate emotional entanglements like this; their only loyalty should be to her and her warfare. Anything else is too dangerous for her. And the Major fears that it will be Mary-Alice that pays Maria's toll.

The plan flits into her head like a puff of fresh air – how else can they justify their physical relationship without drawing suspicion? It's no different than what goes on in barracks during the day, and even Maria has company in her quarters…

It's also a show of trust, that she gets on her knees as he unbuckles his belt; the movement is slower than normal, and he stares down at her with a furrowed brow. He reaches out to her, and his fingers graze the scar by her right eye, and she gives him a smile and a wink.

But it is a mistake, for her, at least. It is far more intimate than she ever assumed, and she is hyperaware of his shallow breaths, of his hand at the back of her head. Too much, too soon. This is the first time she's been in control, been the aggressor, and she's intensely aware that they aren't really anything to each other yet.

When Maria storms in on them, she sees nothing unusual. The Major burning off some of his energy with his little shadow; might as well put her to some sort of use. At least, that's what he says when Maria asks, after she has been dismissed from the room.

It's been a long time since she felt this insignificant, this lost. It's the very first time that she's wanted to run into _her_ Jasper's arms, and have him realign her universe.

But it only lasts a second, before she steels herself again. The cracks cannot show; weakness here is a target.

She loathes this charade.

* * *

When it comes to the final choice, the Major does as she told him, and leaves with Peter. She thanks whatever higher power there is for letting him finally get away. Possibilities, for him, appear in her mind like flowers blooming in a garden.

It isn't until dusk of the following day when Maria realises his absence is not a hunting trip, or reconnaissance.

She has been ordered to draw out the maps again, as territory borders ebb and flow. Her hand is steady as the pen swirls over the chalk outlines; her copies are always flawless, except she cannot read nor write, so Marie must fill in place-names herself. Sometimes she wonders if she is more prized for her cartography than her battle prowess, and that amuses her.

Maria's rage when she realises the Major is gone will never be forgotten by any of them. It is a tsunami of violence, of ripped-up bodies and bites and yelling. It is the complete cave-in of the War Room, when Maria throws Rosa through a load-bearing wall.

 _That_ is what saves her, in the end. That when the ceiling comes down, she is there with the maps, wide-eyed and clutching her arm, cracked and oozing venom. Two floors of furniture, of wood and brick and plaster, all spill down on top of her. And when the wreckage settles, that is when the floor itself cracks and tumbles down into the basement.

By the time she fishes herself out, Maria's tantrum has ended and there are only eight of them left – Rosa is feeding limbs to the pyre with a blank look on her face, the rest have scattered to lick their wounds and regroup.

She makes her way to the shed; to feed and encourage her ruined arm to heal a little faster. But Maria has already swept through the little wooden hut.

Not to feed, no. Just to create more collateral damage.

Human blood and bone and viscera are splattered and pooling; soaking her bare feet, dripping on her face and dress. Limbs are tossed everywhere, heads ripped from torsos, with faces staring and twisted in terror. Lumps of flesh, some with hair, litter the room. Nothing is salvageable.

They'll have to burn it, of course. The stench will be unbearable. Those are the only thoughts she has when she sees the chaos, and then she wonders if she's finally lost her soul. If that was always the price of cutting the Major free.

When she absently dips her hand into some cooling blood and licks it off, she realises that its far too late to worry about the state of her soul.

It's long gone.

* * *

Maria never mentions her tantrum, never mentions the smell of wood smoke in the air, or the brand new shed that stands in its place. She nods her approval at the finished maps, and moves into the left wing of the mansion rather than bothering with repairs. It seems fitting that the Major's absence would leave such a visceral scar on their home.

The others think that she caught up with the Major and destroyed him, whispering between themselves. She knows better.

She sees him with Peter and Charlotte. He still looks haunted, but he is better-clothed and well-fed. He spends endless hours in libraries, devouring books with more intent than he ever took human blood. She hears his laugh in her visions, and it is the closest she can imagine to being stabbed because it is second-hand. She is not there to hear it, doesn't know what caused it.

But there are other things to consider, of course. Maria is watching everyone closely – without the Major, she has no way of controlling enough newborns to keep her full territory, and the Major's betrayal has left her suspicious of all of them. She is her usual, wide-eyed, silent self; battling, drawing the maps, hunting. That is what is safe. She defers, without question, to Maria.

Days turn into weeks, and one day she walks in on Maria cleaning out the Major's quarters. Well, throwing his things into a bonfire on the lawn is a more apt description. She watches the books and clothing tumble onto the flames, and something silver catches her eye.

She sifts through the ashes of the fire later, when Maria is distracted, and finds the Major's slightly charred dog tags.

She's no longer prone to fits of romanticism, but it seems like a sign.

* * *

The Major finds the Cullens on a miserable day, in Maine.

She remembers the Cullens, vaguely; a vision that came before she was awake and aware. She recognizes the older couple, and the red-headed boy, but not the other two. Not that it matters; they are all golden-eyed, and the Major can, of course, take care of himself.

Except, she doesn't think he would. He has long since left Peter and Charlotte, plagued by his gift. He is much diminished, enough that she has seriously considered going after him – except that would end exceptionally badly. She is working the long-con, is the metaphoric cuckoo in the nest, and to play her cards too early will lead to … _difficulties_.

And truly, she's not ready, not yet. This is the only home she's ever known, as despicable as it is.

But the Major, he needs a saviour. And there is Carlisle Cullen, just as he was in that lost vision, ready to offer compassion and sanctuary to the hollowed-out soldier. It will, of course, take time for the Major to trust him, trust the family and join them. Her visions flicker and settle, clear and strong – it _will_ happen. His eyes will be golden, he will have brothers and a sister, a family, and a future.

For now, though, he has a touchstone and a place to rest before he hits rock-bottom, and she, Mary-Alice, will always owe Carlisle Cullen a debt for saving the Major when she could not.

* * *

Time marches onwards. There are battles and hunts; Maria sacrifices Corpus Christi and Laredo for her beloved Monterrey, but Monterrey proves far too difficult to hold with such small numbers. That's how they lose Rosa; the Louisiana coven catches her on a hunt, and break her into little pieces, and then string her up outside the Monterrey mansion like a grotesque marionette before they allow her to burn.

Mary-Alice almost catches herself mourning. Rosa was… she simply was. A fixture in their little party. A constant, steady presence. Gone.

Maria looks old when she gives them the order to pull out of Monterrey and regroup outside San Fernando; she has been scouting, preparing for this possibility, but it is still gut-wrenching. Especially when Maria burns their mansion to the ground without ceremony. Never one to leave behind any sort of advantage.

The ashes of their Monterrey home stick to them as they run; seven now – Maria destroyed the newborns barely a week ago, unwilling to resettle with them in tow. They are a bedraggled group, a piecemeal collection of humanity, if such a thing is left within them.

She looks forward a lot, in those days; seeks the Major out in time and space to remind her that the entire world has not been burnt away with the old house. She sees the Major settle into the Cullen family, sees him hunting animals, and slowly remembering who _Jasper_ is. There is still a solemnness to his gaze, a distance he keeps between himself and the Cullens, but he is safe and cared for. Happy, perhaps. One day, maybe – _hopefully –_ she can be there with him and finally find out what 'happy' feels like.

And for now, that is enough.


	3. It's the thing that ruins you

**Title:** Shadow to Light

 **Author:** Girl Who Writes

 **Characters:** Alice/Jasper

 **Word Count:** 3580

 **Rating:** M

 **Genre:** AU, Angst

 **Summary:** 1918, Jasper lures the newborn known as Mary-Alice back to Monterrey. He is lost to her before it even begins.

 **Notes:** Whoops, this took a little long than anticipated – Jasper had a lot to say about life with the Cullens (and a lot was cut out; hopefully some of those details will make it back in later on!). I have remixed a few events, because Alice is quite an important player in everything that goes down – like the birthday party. Thank you all for the reviews, follows and favourites, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

You can find me on tumblr as lexiewrites or goldeneyedgirl (my twilight-only blog), and I'm happy to chat about all things Twi-fic related.

 **Disclaimer:** Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer; I make no profit from this fan-based venture.

* * *

 **Three.** _It's the thing that ruins you._

He finds this new life – his _third –_ more foreign than anything else he has known.

There are houses and cars, books and beds, and they can have anything they want.

Except for human blood.

But that is the price he pays to be able to read his days away, to wear clean clothing, have a family, and peace of mind.

His throat still itches and burns, and he still turns his head at the strong thrum of human heartbeats. He _has_ slipped.

But he _is_ getting better.

* * *

He never assumed that he would find a coven; none would never accept him after all that he has done, and he would never join, after all that he has seen and felt. He leaves Charlotte and Peter behind with the knowledge - and acceptance - that he is to be alone.

Stumbling into the path of the Cullens was unexpected, but granted him something he never knew he wanted. Company, family, kinship. Carlisle's kindness and patience will never be forgotten – the simple compassion of a chance has changed his entire life.

He is still working to be worthy of it.

It wasn't always so easy, when he looked like the worst kind of nomad. When the paranoia hovered around him like a cloud, and the horror of years gone by trailed alongside him. It took him the best part of twenty years to find the pride in himself to accept Carlisle's invitation to join their family permanently, when before he thought it showed weakness.

They are all good people, but he doesn't know if he would have stayed if it weren't for Esme and Emmett. Carlisle offered the chance, but it was Esme and Emmett convinced him that he _wanted_ it.

Esme was kind, gentle, and all the things good matriarchs are supposed to be, but with a wicked sense of humour. She hadn't once flinched from welcoming the belligerent, dirty nomad into her pristine home, had always looked, and treated, him like he was a respectable gentleman.

Emmett carried the sort of good humour held by people with happy lives, people who played the cards they were dealt without looking for a better hand. Never did Emmett shy away from a conversation, a game, an activity; not once did Emmett treat him with anything besides easy trust and camaraderie, even when he was sour and suspicious.

They are the very best of people.

Better than he deserves, truly.

* * *

Carlisle and Edward are both problem-solvers, men of both science and faith. They like to problem solve, to repair, and to redeem. No matter how many times he tries to deter them, they are fixated on his patchwork past, on the suffering and misery he carries within himself. He bore wounds that they were convinced they could heal.

He is vague in his few recollections to them, concealing the worst of his stories. Edward is too ideological, and took too long to warm up to him as it was – and he sees it in his head, anyway. He wants to protect them, but he also wants to protect himself from their judgement, their condemnation. But still, they pull at threads.

They are both convinced he lost his mate in the wars, no matter how many times he corrects them. For a short time, Carlisle is certain that the lost mate was a male, and that he is ashamed to tell them such a thing. His amusement at that theory dissuades them, until Edward enlists Eleazer's insight, and its times like that Jasper could really do with a _drink_.

It is Eleazer who poses the theory that _Maria_ was his mate. That makes him laugh, loud and genuine, at the idea of the sharp-edged harpy who built her empire on the broken finding a place in his heart. Never _ever._ Maria – and her emotions – were a disgusting, rotten thing. It was Maria who taught him to feel nothing, to wield his gift like sword and shield both, or risk losing his goddamned mind.

But they push and push; Edward is always posed to rifle through his thoughts and memories, Carlisle's gentle worry hums around him, Eleazer's crisp and clinical concern fills the room. Sometimes, when the hushed discussions about him wear thin, he wants to yell that he's not fucking _capable_ of loving someone else. He has given _all_ that he is to being a Cullen, and even then, he's more of a ghost or an antisocial pet, than a brother and son figure.

That having a mate _,_ let alone a lover or a wife, would be a goddamned _nightmare_ – just another person to let down, leave behind, and disappoint.

There is something depressing about the idea that they are trying to find his lost love, when he's never had a love to lose.

* * *

He doesn't slip often, thanks to the little voice the reminds him that this life was bought and paid for by another.

But when he does, the victims are all the same. He tries not to notice.

Girls with big eyes and dark hair. Girls whose bones snap like twigs when he grabs them, who would have no chance against an attacker, human or immortal. Girls whose skin is shadowed with bruises left by his hands.

It is Emmett that quietly voices the words he refuses to think.

He is always so careful with their bodies, afterwards, even with his failure hanging heavy in the air. Emmett has helped him clean up a few times, and watches him as he gathers them up gently – straightening torn clothing, replacing a missing shoe, smoothing their hair back from their face.

"They're _always_ the same, dude," is his pseudo-brother's comment, as they walk away from another invisible gravesite, fresh blood under his nails and lighting his eyes. "Who was she?"

That is a question he will never answer – out of shame, out of regret, out of penance. Her memory is, somehow, sacred to him – the most private thing he can think of.

 _I can take care of myself._ He still hears her stubborn words, see the flash of her red eyes. How far gone was he, that he couldn't even forge his own escape? That he didn't even _think_ of dragging her with him until he was six states away, and trying not to breakdown where Peter or Charlotte would hear?

"Maybe I just have a type."

* * *

High school half a dozen times is five times to many.

He tolerates it once a decade, to keep up to date for the purposes of college. College he likes; it is liberating to learn, to argue and analyse and debate. He can lock himself away in his study, and read for as long as he likes, and Carlisle considers that productive. He never would have had this opportunity in his human life. The amount of education that the Cullens actually encourage him to accumulate is a dream he didn't know he had.

But high school, that is a hellish soup of emotions and misery. It is watching students and teachers ricochet off each other, shove up against needless boundaries, and just wear each other raw. Invisibility is impossible, and he rarely lasts long before getting a reputation amongst faculty as a smart-ass and a bad seed.

'A necessary evil,' Carlisle calls it when they move, and Jasper has to join them at school. He doesn't complain… much; he goes and pretends to be sixteen-seventeen-eighteen. He pretends he understands the pop-culture references, the current events, the trivial details that make the charade convincing. Edward used his gift to guide him; Rosalie wore her haughtiness like armour, and Emmett's cheery nature meant that they could all fumble their way through. But he does not have those luxuries.

Just trial and error.

He'll get it right eventually.

* * *

The fact Maria will come for him is as inevitable as the tide, as the sunrise, as Edward and Rosalie's fights. She is like a bloodhound, a parasite that sinks in and refuses to leave.

He's surprised she's taken this long, though. He thought she would have come after him a long time ago, have put a price on his head. And that is just Maria – the Deep South is lousy with enemies that would gladly seen him and his family burn.

They are lucky in the fact she finds him in Calgary, where their house is outside of the city, and helpfully remote. They are luckier still that Maria is unaware of Edward's gift, and he hears enough when she ventures close to discern that they are in danger. They wait for her in the forest, outside their home, as the birds slowly go silent and the trees still.

If there is one thing he is confident of, it is that Maria will never get close enough to touch a single hair on Esme nor Rosalie's heads. That Edward has heard his thoughts, Carlisle has offered his counsel, and Emmett is not nearly as foolish as he pretends to be. They know Maria is dangerous, and not to be underestimated. They will not falter.

As she steps into the little clearing, the sight of her is almost too much. The familiar tumble of red-brown hair; the old-fashioned and innocuous dress; the bright red eyes that pierce him down to the bone. She smells of the pyres, the sweet and cloying smoke; of old blood and the sand of the south. It is a smell that hurts him, drags him back down to the worst of his regrets, to his most breakable point.

"Hello Major," she purrs, and he has to steel himself against shuddering at her voice.

His most secret self is not sure that he will survive this, if it comes to violence.

* * *

Carlisle has spoken with him about violence and vengeance before, earnestly encouraging him to turn away from thoughts of revenge. Forgiveness and redemption are things that Carlisle believes in fervently, things that must come from within. That his own struggles to grieve and find peace will be hindered if he actively chooses to destroy Maria. She lives, unless she lifts a hand against the Cullens - that is Carlisle's expectation.

And he wants to live up to that ideal, badly.

Most of the conversation moves past him, as if he is underwater, or watching from a great distance. He does not falter, does not provoke, even as she prowls the invisible boundary, as she blatantly evaluates the size, strength and the _value_ of the Cullens.

He knows that she can see it in his eyes, that he will not leave, and that threats or blackmail will only end in violence. And she will not deign to fight him – in her heart of hearts, a fair fight between them would be too close to call; and since she has never fought fair, why should she expect him to? He is the one flanked by his _family_.

She is bitter and vindictive, and contemplates leaving a few scars to decorate the little females so closely guarded, to remind him of his refusal, Edward tells him later. She wants to surround him with the limbs of those that he prizes, to break him down again and have him _beg_ to return.

He underestimated her, of how well she knew him, of how much she saw. Of how easily she can twist things up in knots, and sink her teeth into the most fragile point. And as she shakes her head, and turns to leaves, she pauses and smirks a little.

"That girl you were always fondling," she tosses carelessly over her shoulder. "She was destroyed, you know. The Louisiana coven got her a few years back. They didn't kill her right away, either. Screamed your name for three days before they finally burnt her. Heard her all the way down in Laredo."

Mary.

 _Mary._

It's like the world slows down for a moment, the cold of the air actually seeping under his skin. He remembers the cruelty of the Louisiana coven. Of mutilated prisoners, and the stories of torture. Of 'experiments' with venom and flame. Of stripping the bodies down, burning the heads, but salvaging fingers, toes, noses, ears – any body part that could be kept for their own soldiers' battle injuries.

Life in Maria's army was horror and suffering, and something that will haunt him forever.

The Louisiana coven were always much, much worse.

He comes back to himself as Maria takes off, and intensely aware as the Cullens' force his gift to come to life – and he knows, with a sinking feeling, that Maria's words were not meant to be a trigger only for him. _The girl you were always fondling._ She has played her hand well – reveal the monster to the Cullens, strike rage into the hearts of the females they protect, fracture the trust they hold in him.

He stands there in the snow, staring at the place Maria stood, trying to find the words to explain that aren't goddamned lies.

After all, no one knew how old she was.

She remembered nothing, with all the innocence of a damn child.

She _was_ small, a little slip of a thing.

That's why her clothes never fit; they took them from their kills, and few of them ever killed children.

He didn't… he shouldn't… but he _did._

He _had_ hurt her, and often.

"Jasper?"

He looks to see Carlisle staring at him, the anger having given way to compassion and frustration, the older man resting his hand on his shoulder.

"Who was 'she', Jasper?"

"No one." The words are bitter. "I'm sorry she came here."

Maria's true parting gift turns out to be the slaughter of a local campsite; a dozen middle schoolers and their teachers strung like marionettes, mutilated beyond identification. And even as Esme weeps over the newspaper, as Emmett tries to make sense of such pointless slaughter, and Rosalie burns with equal parts of fear and rage, all he can think is that it isn't the worst thing Maria has ever done.

Edward doesn't look him in the eye for a week.

* * *

Isabella Swan is a disaster of the worst kind. He doesn't know what the _fuck_ Edward was thinking, truly. Of course, he never found a singer, only knows what Maria told him. But Edward is old enough to know the rules, to understand the rules. They aren't goddamned difficult: she _knows_ ; therefore, she has the choice between death or transformation. There are no loopholes or codicils. Just an unforgiving choice.

It's more than anyone else in the family ever got. He thinks that's why Rosalie dislikes the girl so intensely; not because Bella wants to be a vampire, but because there is the possibility of choice. They change so slowly, so minutely, that even the idea of death and nothingness is as intriguing as it is horrifying because it is, simply, unknown.

He really needs to stop studying philosophy.

After the accident with the van, he is determined to kill Isabella Swan. She should have died when the van struck her. And what was she anyway, really? A blank slate, an unacceptable risk. Utterly unremarkable. He wouldn't have even bothered keeping her if he'd found her in Monterrey.

That thought sends a bolt of white-hot rage through Edward, which is curious. He denies he cares, but he does, deeply and unwillingly.

He recognizes that feeling with dread and grief, and tries to push it aside. It is only Carlisle's polite but firm order, directed to the entire family because Rosalie is not above convincing Emmett to do her dirty-work, that Isabella Swan will _not_ be harmed.

After that, when he sees Isabella Swan, he thinks of that spark of feeling that Edward so desperately tried to smother. The dread and longing, the misery and hope. He is unwillingly reminded of worn out cotton dresses, and the scent of salt and dried flowers, round eyes and a laugh like bells. He remembers her bewilderment, the way she closed her eyes when he touched her, and whose emotions slid away before he could decipher them.

He thinks of her death, slow and agonizing, of how bad the pain would have been for her to scream for help that would never arrive. Did she really scream his name, or was that Maria rubbing salt in the wound? Maria always lied, tangled up the truth to get her own way.

He wishes… a lot of things, impossible things, that are best left alone. The life he has now, with the Cullens, is her legacy, that is what he should remind himself of. That no matter how badly he hurt her, how wretched a life she had, she still offered him sanctuary.

In the end, he spares Isabella's life for two reasons - because Carlisle's word is his new and unbreakable law, despite the danger they are courting.

And because he remembers what it feels like, that sick and terrible swoop of fantastic disaster. He just hopes, for all their sakes, Edward makes better choices than he ever did.

* * *

If nothing else, Isabella Swan keeps things interesting, even if it is entirely unintentional.

James' hunt was hardly her fault, especially if his bragging on the video camera had been the truth. That all over the country are girls who caught his eye, broken and bloodless in the wake of his little games. And Bella Swan pays the toll with a pound of flesh – broken bones, bruised flesh, and a silvery scar on her hand.

She couldn't be blamed, either, for the accident that sent Edward fleeing, dragging them all away from her. After all, it was hard to adjust to having a human in their home, their safe-place. It was hard to remember to maintain the façade around her, because human flesh is weak. An exuberant Emmett; Bella standing innocently; a glass coffee table, and _blood_.

He still remembers grazing her skin as his fingers closed around her shirt, Edward's snarl, and Emmett's horror.

Emmett had blamed himself for a long time.

But leaving was just plain foolishness; he had predicted that once Edward had found and vanquished Victoria, they would go slinking back to Forks with their tails between their legs. It was an inevitability; he was as tied to Bella as Esme was to Carlisle. But instead, a tangle of second-hand stories and a vengeful Quileute boy sent them all to the depths of Volterra, to bow and scrape and _swear_ that Bella would be turned or killed before her twentieth birthday. A negotiation less dictated by his skill, and more by Aro's fascination with Carlisle.

Vampires, and werewolves, and death threats – Bella was tangled up in a nightmare.

And somehow, Victoria was still out there, still full of rage and vengeance, with her eyes on Bella Swan.

It takes him far too long to notice the pattern of disappearances in Seattle. He reads the paper, watches the television, hears an off-hand comment from Bella, and still, he doesn't see the pattern. He is getting old and out of practice. He should have caught it when there were only three or four of them; a round-trip to Seattle with Emmett, and no one any wiser.

But when he finally pieces it all together, realises what he is seeing, he is terrified for them all.

This army is larger than any Maria attempted to wield in the South. Larger than can be contained in one city. More newborns than he has ever managed to use his gift on, and he hasn't had to use it in a combat situation in decades.

And they are coming to Forks. For Bella, and for the Cullens.

They are six vampires - five untrained; a human girl, and _perhaps_ a handful of teenage boys turned feral dogs. Against the vengeance of a vampire, and her savage newborn army that grows by the day. They cannot win, it is _impossible._

He can see the Cullens ripped to ribbons; Esme's cry of pain as she falls. Rosalie's outraged shriek. The acceptance in Carlisle's eyes as he is overrun, and Emmett's bewildered panic. He sees Edward fall and not get up, and Bella a broken jumble of bone and flesh that tells of a long, miserable death.

He sees a dozen Quileute boys never going home again, and Forks overrun with vicious and unexplainable slaughter.

He sees a path straight to a Volturi pyre for all of them, and he doesn't know if he can fix it.

* * *

Her feet barely skim the ground, green foliage whipping past as she runs. There is dirt on her feet from Mexico, blood on her collar from Colorado, mud on her dress from Wyoming. It feels good to run, and not just towards a fight.

It feels better to run away from something, and the best to run _towards_ something.

She doesn't think anything has ever looked as good to her as the intense green of the North, has ever felt as good as rain washing away ashes and dirt from her cheeks.

She is a jumble of emotions she wants to shed before she gets too close – anticipation, fear and dread, and something she doesn't recognize, that makes her chest feel tight but empty, that makes her want to sob and laugh at the same time.

She has to save the Major and his family, of course.

But this time, she gets to save herself in the process.


	4. Who looks for a leaf in the forest?

**Title:** Shadow to Light

 **Author:** Girl Who Writes

 **Characters:** Alice/Jasper

 **Word Count:** 3834

 **Rating:** M

 **Genre:** AU, Angst

 **Summary:** 1918, Jasper lures the newborn known as Mary-Alice back to Monterrey. He is lost to her before it even begins.

 **Notes:** I am so, so sorry at how long this took to post. As I mentioned on my tumblr, an old friend of mine passed away in February, and that broke my heart. I didn't feel much like writing anything. Combined with the fact I am writing a book for my final university project (and is due at the printer in two weeks), I fell way behind. I also haven't replied to any of the lovely reviews I've gotten, but I'm back at the keyboard, so everyone who messaged me should get a nice, super-late reply ;)

Anyway, we're back with Alice's part. More notes at the bottom.

You can find me on tumblr as lexiewrites or goldeneyedgirl (my twilight-only blog), and I'm happy to chat about all things Twi-fic related.

 **Note 2:** _Please note that this chapter includes a scene that refers to the assault of a character. It is not graphic, but if you feel that it isn't something that you want to read, PM me and I will upload an alternate version to goldeneyedgirl on tumblr. _

**Disclaimer:** Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer; I make no profit from this fan-based venture.

* * *

 **Four.** _Who looks for a leaf in the forest?_

Why does she stay?

It is something she asks herself more and more often these days. Everything is different and she doesn't like it.

San Fernando is a new kind of hell she didn't expect. It's a harder life than before, even after they run the few stragglers out of their new territory. They set up camp in an abandoned farm, and for a while, she hopes things will go back to some sort of normality. Something recognizable, at the very least.

But no. This is a new kind of life, a warped version of what she has always known. They hunt on the fringes, rather than the massive herd lands of Monterrey; there aren't enough of them to scout successfully, let alone make the journey for intelligence on the Louisiana coven.

It is the first time she can recall wishing for sleep. She feels drained – used up, wrung out, and rock bottom.

Once again, she is tasked with the cartography, but no longer with inks and paper. No, just black chalk on the wall of the rotten farmhouse for now. The lines have to be redrawn every day, as the chalk fades and smudges.

She gets a punch to the head when she asks when there will paper and pens again. She's lucky, though: Ana gets her arm ripped clean off for complaining about the lack of clothing.

Ana gets the arm back two days later, but without half the fingers.

* * *

A week after they arrive, Maria orders a pit dug in the barn, good and deep, and then has Juan lash together pieces of rotten fencing with rope. Nothing good can come from that, she knows, and makes sure she is always busy with the maps. She tries to convince herself it is just a fire pit, one that will be easily concealed, but she knows it isn't. Maria likes her pyres.

The screaming starts on the fourth day, before dawn, and she goes out to investigate with Ariana.

The pit is no bigger than a washroom, and twice as deep as she is tall. A scattering of hay along the bottom adds a nice smell to the air – for now. A dozen humans are lined up, stripped of their clothing and shoes, their misery evident.

Maria watches as Juan and Mateo get them all down into the pit, and she finds herself counting every bone cracking as the humans' fight and struggle, and ultimately fall. Mateo curses; at least one human has hit the bottom and died. Maria's lips purse, but she says nothing.

She has the same problem a lot – sometimes it's hard to know what will kill a human. They crumble like leaves against most things. The head, chest and spine are particularly fragile.

Mateo feeds from the body before it cools, and the screams reach fever-pitch. It is so _loud_ that she retreats back into the farmhouse, and goes back to her drawing. She never realised how many maps Maria used, until she had to redraw them each and every day.

The next day, as the sun sinks down, she creeps back out to look into the pit. The old fencing works as a sort-of cover for it, to muffle the screams and hide them away from sight. And protect them from the sun; humans do not do well in continued heat. She remembers that.

The smell is foul when she pushes aside the cover, but she doesn't leave. She crouches on the side of the pit, and stares down at ten terrified faces. They beg, they threaten, they pray. Mateo's meal still lies in the corner, bloodless and beginning to stink. She notes the bones jutting awkwardly from joints, the film of sweat and dirt that covers each of them.

"Please, little one!" an older man pleads with her, cradling a young girl at his side. Her eyes are wide and glassy, her lips stained with old blood. "Please, have mercy!"

Perhaps it has taken her this long to finally piece together that she really was one of them once. Or perhaps she is disgusted by that revelation, seeing them broken and dirty and desperate.

She grants them only the smallest mercies, things Maria approves – fresh hay, for the smell and the damp; a metal bucket of dirty water from the pump in the yard that they fall onto with rapt desperation; and she takes away the body of Mateo's kill.

That goes to the pit at the edge of the property, where bodies will be burnt and buried.

By the end of the week, there are two more identical pits; Maria likes them better than the sheds.

Within a month Maria has realised that whilst ten can exist comfortably, in a pinch, between fifteen and twenty can be crammed into those dirt holes – but they have to make sure legs or collarbones are broken, to make sure there will be no attempts at escape.

One particularly mouthy man irritates Maria enough that she simply orders his pit filled in, burying the man and his companions alive. It is a terrible waste of so many things, and it is unlike Maria to be quite so petty towards the 'cattle', but none of them say a word.

It doesn't matter where she goes – the house, the barn, the furthest boundary, she can hear their screaming and their praying, even with the wooden covers. They spin through emotions – terror, fury, desperation, grief, hopelessness – and their voices crack and break.

When the sun is high in the sky, and Maria forbids them from venturing out into the daylight, the pits fall silent, and she imagines them succumbing to the heat, to their own despair, to days without food or clean, plentiful water.

Somehow, it is worse when the pits are quiet.

* * *

It is only a month or two after their arrival, Maria begins to rebuild the army. She is cautious in her selection of soldiers. The first few are harmless – Reina is the vainest creature on the planet, and Felipe is strong but as dumb as a brick. They are both obedient, respectful, and learn their roles quickly.

It is Derrick she does not like. He looks innocuous, baby-faced, but there's something foul about him. His sly smirks and calculating gazes do not put anyone else on edge, but she stays away as best she can. The newborns are kept in the cellar, but she is _finally_ granted a reprieve from the 'barracks', and shares a tiny room with Ariana in the farmhouse proper.

For a little while, she thinks that is enough to protect her from a nebulous threat she doesn't entirely comprehend.

He finally corners her in the barn, after training. It happens so quickly, and he is so strong, then he has her pinned, his arm around her throat. She cannot move, and she isn't stupid – so much as a murmur, and he will take her head clean off.

There is _nothing_ she can do.

The things he whispers in her ear are vile, but she is silent, trying to still her unnecessary breathing.

Fear creates predatory behaviour. The Major taught her that.

But it doesn't help her now; it doesn't stop him in his assault, his arm still tight and unrelenting. He goads her, clearly eager for her to provoke him into beheading her.

This is _not_ how she dies.

She is rage wrapped in ice and stone. Instead of crawling into a corner of her mind, she tries to drag a vision upon herself so she can figure out what she does next.

But she doesn't know, so she cannot make that choice, and when he finally releases her, she runs. She runs and runs, until she can see the ocean and there is sand underneath her bare feet. It is there that her rage burns out, and she just feels hollowed out and dirty.

She can still smell that bastard on her. That is easily fixed; the heavy, salt water of the Gulf of Mexico wash away his scent, and leaves her hair gritty and her dress stiff. But the _feeling_ of him pressed up against her, of his arm around her throat, the scent of his hot breath, his mocking words…

By dawn, she is back at the farm, and Maria looks suspicious at her absence, the smell of the ocean lingering about her, but she says nothing. What is there to say? It is best forgotten, another lesson learned. Don't be caught alone, don't be caught unaware. This is a brand new world, and nothing from Monterrey will help her now.

Seniority and respect are no longer suitable armour for this war.

It takes only a few days, until the next training session. She thinks she has reforged herself, left it all behind, until she sees him. The smirk on his face, the _knowing._ And the rage blooms fierce and hot, once again. She doesn't even make the choice – she tears his head from his body, and he is burning before anyone realises what has been done.

This isn't her safe place anymore. And in the blaze of righteous anger, she wants to burn it down, and salt the earth so that nothing can ever rise from its ashes.

* * *

She finds herself slipping, into a darkness that feels bottomless. She cares less and less about the humans in the pit, leaves their care to Mateo and Ariana.

She spends less time watching the Major with the Cullens, pushing down the glimpses that come to the surface. That isn't her life, isn't even her world. Two nights ago, she dismembered, burnt, and buried twelve human bodies. That isn't the life that the Cullens know. Dr Cullen is a _doctor_ who _heals_ humans.

She rips them into wet, meaty pieces, and piles them into the fire. She doesn't know their names, doesn't know what – or who – they left behind. And now? Now, she's stopped wondering.

She's stopped caring.

She spends more time at the ocean, away from the farm. It's so quiet at night, and she likes to watch the tide ebb and flow.

She isn't depressed, not like the Major. She savours the fight now, the battle. The _victory_ , when she shreds another soldier, when she flings lost limbs onto the pyre; the burn of venom under her skin is welcome because it means she is still the _best._

She's falling deeper and deeper into the dark, and there's no one there to pull her back up.

* * *

Why doesn't she kill Maria?

That question is one she has contemplated more than once. Why she doesn't just walk up behind her, and tear her head off. It would be so _easy_. Maria barely even sees her anymore; to their fearless leader, she is nothing more than a piece of set-dressing, like the rotten furniture. There is a grim sort of respect between them, born from years of fighting the same war; of surviving as soldiers, vampires, and women.

Even after all these years, she remembers nothing from her human life, not what it was like to live and die as a mortal girl, and then rise again. Not what it felt like to love and hate and fear and grieve. Not even what the burning felt like.

She has no memories of a mother's love or a father's protection, and never does that show more than in her reluctance to end Maria once and for all. After all, the woman kept her, allowed her to learn and live, even when she did and said foolish, ignorant things.

Maria is a viper, a predator, a malevolent harpy of the highest regard. She does not even like the woman, truthfully; it is fear and hate and respect knotted together when she thinks of her. She _loathes_ her for what she planned to do to the Major.

But they've been together now for at least sixty-odd years. The longest she has known anyone other than herself. The one thing that bows but never breaks. In this terrible world, only three things are always perfectly certain: the sun will rise, humans will die, and Maria will still be there, as vile and constant as ever.

Maria is no mother nor sister or even a friend. She is, repulsively enough, the centre of her god-damned world, and she cannot even bring herself to see what lies beyond, should she kill her.

And that is why she doesn't kill Maria.

* * *

They catch the Louisianan spy just before dawn; Paulina is small and spry, but no match for them. She is the one that pins Paulina in the sand, more used to the shifting grains on the beach than the others, holds the struggling girl down until Mateo and Felipe hurl her up and drag her off to face Maria.

Maria plays the role of lady of the manor well, and takes Paulina to the barn. And for the first time, it is not just Mateo that joins them. No, this time she is waved in as well.

The chair, the chains: they are all props in a play, to fool Paulina into underestimating them.

She is little more than an assistant; as Maria and Mateo break Paulina's fingers and toes at each knuckle, as they bite into the meat of her joints. As they cut away her fine clothes and Maria uses Paulina's own teeth to carve into her skin.

She perches on a ledge, little more than an observer at the way venom spills from Paulina's mouth from the gaping wounds left behind by her canines; her face has cracked in parallel lines up past her nose. Maria cheerfully suggests they carve her up into every little piece for crossing into enemy territory – eyes and teeth, ears and lungs. Paulina is shaking, but looks away from Maria, from Mateo.

"You know, Emile taught me every single thing I know about pain," Maria murmurs. "For me, it was an ugly necessity, but for Emile… it was an art form."

Paulina spat a mouthful of venom onto the ground, sneering at them. "Spare me the poetry. Emile might have taught you to carve up a body, but we all know the truth. The Major taught you _pain._ First when he turned away from you, second when he _abandoned_ you. He ruined you. Once he left, you were _nothing_."

Maria snarls, and punches the girl so hard, her head cracks a pillar, but Paulina is laughing.

"He left you _both._ How does that feel, that he could bare neither of you a second longer, so he left you behind? That he risked death before the company of either of you?"

For a split second, she is shocked that whatever she and the Major had was such public knowledge that the Louisiana coven knew about it.

But that fades quickly; old intelligence from another life. Paulina's words rattle around in her head _– "…that he could bare neither of you a second longer, so he left you behind…"_ She's asked herself that more than once, when the ocean washes over her toes. Why didn't he even think about taking her with him? She would have stayed behind to protect him, to guarantee his safety, but… it is still raw, so many years later, that she has been fighting for a person that only exists in her head. And that no matter how long she plays along and plans and promises, that it could all just be for some fairy-tale she dreamed up out of nowhere.

She is almost surprised how much it still aches.

She picks up the tooth Mateo discarded, and with one swipe, splits Paulina's face opened from temple to chin, the girl howling in pain. The wound is deep; cut right down to whatever passes as bone in their petrified bodies, and for a sickening moment, she considers putting the few lessons on anatomy she has gleaned from Dr Cullen to the test; to carve the girl into textbook pieces and find out how they work, exactly.

Her stomach twists, and another vision presses angrily against her temples, and she comes back from herself, from that hurt and pain and rage, and almost wishes she could be sick at how pleasing the idea of Paulina's eyeballs cut from her head was to her.

The tooth falls from her hand, and she turns away. She has never truly had the stomach for this part.

Maria and Mateo are watching her, waiting for her cues, but she is done with Paulina - done with pain; she is a killer, trained to deliver the death blow, not to torture or linger over suffering.

"They speak of you, you know." Paulina's voice is defiant, but she doesn't bother looking back at the prisoner. Whether she sings like a bird, pledges her unwavering loyalty to Maria, delivers slaves and gold and power, she is dead. Paulina will die, and whatever hell Emile has rained down on Maria will continue, triple-fold.

"The whispers name you as a bloody-eyed child, though we know better. But those stories _will_ find the Volturi's ear one day. And they will come and they will kill you all."

She doesn't look back as she leaves, but she doesn't have to; her mind shows her everything. The determined, martyred look on Paulina's face at her disappearing back. The way Maria smiles so warmly, as she reaches into her pockets. The whites of Paulina's eyes as Maria holds up the lighter against the gaping wound in her cheek.

The screaming brings her back to reality, and she turns and walks away, to where she can sink her feet into the sand and watch the steady ebb and flow of the water, and not think of the swirling cuts on Paulina's body calling to the flame, of the fire jumping for the raw wounds inside her mouth.

Or the way that Paulina's face had split open under her own hand, just like human flesh.

* * *

Time passes, battles are fought, bodies are burnt. Just like clockwork. And she feels nothing. She is nothing; it is almost as if she is watching from outside of her body most nights. That she is waiting for time to erode away her stone flesh until she is just dust.

She has spent so many decades smothering herself down, locking herself away, that's she's not entirely sure there's anything of herself left. Just this hollow, living-dead girl eternally waiting for something that might never come.

The visions of the Major with the Cullen coven used to be comforting. A hope for the future, that the life she leads now isn't all that fate has in store for her. Her visions nurtured that flicker of possibility, that one day she would be free and happy and _herself._ Not this cold, strange killer. This girl who doesn't laugh or smile or even speak often.

The visions of herself being anywhere-but-here faded slowly, but they were always only as certain as she was. She _could_ join the Major and the Cullens. They would accept her. They _would._

But why? What does she have to offer? There is nothing redeemable about her anymore.

How many has she killed during her entire life? Not just the used-up newborns, but _everyone_ – the humans for their blood; enemy soldiers for their territory; _witnesses_. The ones who struggled through training and just… annoyed her. _Paulina._ The knowledge of it all doesn't leave her sad or shamed or depressed, like the Major – just cold, and calculating, like Maria examining her maps.

There is only one thing left in her; the almost childlike trust that her visions will tell her what to do - what is right, what is good, what will save her. It is the only thing that keeps her going, most days. That when she started this, she held all the cards and the utter conviction that she could do this – master the board, play the longest con, win the game.

But she is running out of moves, out of time, out of sanity.

Out of _heart._

She stops looking for the Major and his coven. Instead, she looks to her own future, and whispers prayers to a god she doesn't believe in.

 _Something has to happen._

 _Please._

* * *

Her story ends the way so many do: burning on the battlefields of Mexico.

Or at least, that is how Maria, and all of the southern warmongers, will remember it.

It's a bad, bad battle; Paulina's death is still fresh in Emile's mind. And some upstart from the west has joined the battle; Maria had scoffed when they brought news of Valeria's rise in Hermosillo. She had dismissed the threat, saying that Valeria would go after Baja California, and die for her arrogance. No one bothered the covens of Tijuana without paying with their life.

But Valeria has challenged Maria, and now there are three armies on the battlefield, and it is the goddamn _apocalypse_. There is fire, and snarling and yelling, and so much _smoke._ She takes off the head of one of Valeria's commanders, the arms off a newborn, and has one of Emile's coven members in her sight when a vision flares around her.

 _Maria stalking the battlefield, ash clinging to the lace of her skirt, Reina trailing after her. They find Leon's head, and Maria grimaces, finishing the job. In one pit, Mateo's leg is found, with the scar mottling his thigh; another reveals a clump of burnt flesh with a tangle of Ariana's hair still clinging to it._

 _Something shiny in the ashes catches Maria's eye; a dented and tarnished coin on a piece of filthy string._

 _The letters on the dog tag are long since worn away, but she knows what they once said. She knows who wore those tags._

 _And then she is alone, and running. Her feet kick up dirt and mud, her short hair whips at her face. She left the Major's tags behind, the one thing that she ever kept for herself, in that pile of ashes. A difficult parting, but perhaps it is the ferryman's toll, to pass through the land of the dead safely._

 _She keeps running and running and running._

This moment is hers, and is it finally here. She can leave, get away safely. There will be no righteous fury, justified retribution, or final stand. She will simply go quietly, and leave behind enough evidence for a peaceful assumption.

The Major's dog tag slips through her fingers, and lands in the ashes silently; as soon as it falls, she is running, running, running.

Away from San Fernando, from Monterrey and Mexico, from Texas and the South.

It always felt so impossible, to untangle herself from the strings that kept her at Maria's side, in the south, and simply leave.

But once she starts to run, the dirt of Mexico under her feet, it feels like she will never ever stop.

* * *

 **Note:** Who wants to kick me for not getting to the reunion yet? ^_^ This chapter was initially a lot longer, but I feel that Alice's life post-Monterrey and her escape was really important; fan ideas of Maria's army and life there are so different that I wanted to explore this version of it. I'll probably add more notes about this chapter on Tumblr, for anyone interested.

We're back with Jasper circa _Eclipse_ next chapter, when Alice _should_ make her appearance.


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